


Everything's Bigger in Canada

by cheshirecatstrut



Category: Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M, Snark and Banter, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 10:41:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12839460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecatstrut/pseuds/cheshirecatstrut
Summary: Logan and Veronica have very different ideas about how Christmas should be celebrated.





	Everything's Bigger in Canada

**Prompt #54:** **"Let’s import a Christmas tree from Canada.”**

The sunset view is truly spectacular from Logan and Veronica’s new beach house—and after a long afternoon of skip traces and insurance fraud investigation, V’s primed to snuggle and enjoy it over a glass of eggnog. But a niggling sense of duty unfulfilled prevents her.

“It’s December twenty-first,” she informs Logan, who began leave this morning and has spent the whole day in pajamas. “We should really think about getting a tree.”

She expects him to be noncommittal, the way he generally is about this holiday she loves and he loathes. But instead, he says, “I think we should import one from Canada.”

“What?” Her drowsy inability to process enthusiasm morphs slowly into incredulousness, and she sits up straight. “Are you serious?”

“Oh, like the idea’s strange? Canada is the number one exporter of Christmas trees.” He shifts her gently sideways so he can pull out his cell and Google. “Look. One-point-six million trees travel to the US from Canada every year.”

“Yes, but we live in CALIFORNIA,” she argues. “How practical is it for one of those extravagant families to be us?”

“Veronica,” he says, in the gently-chiding tone that makes hair stand up on the back of her neck. “We can’t have an AMERICAN tree! What would the neighbors think?”

“Since when do you give a flying fuck about the neighbors?” She drains her extremely delicious eggnog before setting the cup down. “Yesterday you closed all the blinds mid-conversation, so the kids from down the street selling Girl Scout cookies wouldn’t knock.”

“You always buy fifty boxes of Thin Mints,” he says. “Those things are full of preservatives, and my body’s a fine-tuned machine. When they start making Girl Scout cookies out of organic kale, I’ll reach for my wallet.”

“Logan,” she says, striving for ‘reasonable’. “There are plenty of excellent trees available domestically.”

“Not BALSAM FIRS,” he protests. “Not BIG ones!”

“So we won’t get a fir.” She shrugs, and gets up to refill her cup from the pan simmering on the stove.

“Fine.” He follows her, hands his own cup over for a ladleful. “No fir. Next will you suggest we buy a potted palm because it’s local, and hang bulbs from KMART all over it?”

“What’s wrong with Kmart?” She leans back against the ten-foot-long kitchen island Logan demanded, maintaining he can’t cook properly without space for mise-en-place. “They sell a variety of frequently-needed products, clustered in one convenient location.”

Logan rolls his eyes. “Did you REALLY just ask me that?”

She pats his chest. “Think of this as a growth experience. I’ll even let you make the journey solo; and you can buy me a clapper while you’re there, to control the lights.”

“Christopher Radko is the only acceptable place to purchase ornaments,” he maintains, frowning at the eggnog, then adding a shake of cinnamon. “Also, what the hell is a clapper?”

“Christopher who?” She reaches into his pocket to remove his phone and Googles for herself. “And a clapper is a handy-dandy object that turns Christmas lights on and off when you clap. No muss, no fuss, no running across the room for the switch.”

His lip curls slightly, an expression of abject horror. “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard. It’d malfunction at the drop of a hat, we’d just be ASKING for trouble.” Waving a dismissive hand, he adds, “If that doesn’t encapsulate the horrors of Kmart in one supremely tacky invention, nothing will.”

Veronica locates the Radko website and adopts her own expression of horror. “Fifty DOLLARS for a two-inch-tall china Santa? Are you out of your MIND?”

“Give me that.” He appropriates the phone and searches. “Oh, I see. It’s a collector’s item, part of their signature 2017 collection. Which, in my opinion, is reasonable--if you want these family heirlooms to last, you can’t buy garbage.”

“Who needs them to last?” she folds her arms and gets stubborn, stung by his blithe elitism. “Maybe I’ll just stick cloves in some oranges and hang them with ribbon.”

“Oh come on!” he says, still browsing. “Is that even sanitary? What happens after four days when they ROT?”

“That’s what the cloves are for.” She shrugs, like it’s obvious. “To hide the smell.”

He lifts a supercilious eyebrow. “So what you’re saying is, you want a shitty American tree hung with cheap, shatter-prone crap and rotten fruit, which blinks randomly on and off every time someone makes a loud noise. And this is how you plan to celebrate our very first Christmas as supposedly-happy marrieds.”

“Well we COULD follow the traditions from your childhood home,” she snaps, irritated. “Fifteen-foot-tall frosted artificial monstrosity done up in monochrome…and homicidal catering assistants running around with icepicks.”

He scowls at her, faintly hurt, and she relents. “Come on, I’m only messing with you. I won’t choose ugly decorations, and I won’t leave rotten fruit on our tree. Look, Dad gave me a whole box of handmade ornaments—we can use those instead.”

She bustles off to the guest room, which is still full of unpacked boxes, and returns with the file crate marked ‘Veronica—Christmas’. Selects an ornament at random. “I made this clothespin reindeer back in the third grade, and it’s still in mint condition, thank you very much.”

“All right, this is cute,” Logan admits, examining it. “I can picture ten-year-old Veronica with a smear of red paint on her nose, industriously ensuring her ornament’s ten times better than her classmates’. Via sabotage, if necessary.”

“Damn straight.” She elbows him, polishing off her eggnog again. “Come on, get dressed and find a coat. We’ll go for a ride, and I’ll show you how the other half procures holiday greenery without shipping it on a private jet.”

Pony, who’s been sprawled across the living-room floor up to this point, ignoring the contretemps to stare distrustfully at the fireplace, gallops for the front door upon hearing ‘go for a ride’. She skids sideway to a halt when Logan calls, “Pony, with me!” But follows him to the yard without complaint, where she’ll enjoy barking at beachgoers from the comfort of her heated doghouse.

It takes Veronica two minutes to find shoes, and Logan twenty to dress and primp, but eventually they’re in the Range Rover he insisted on buying ‘for shopping expeditions’. Logan lets her drive, but turns the heat way up; he’s a delicate hothouse flower, only willing to tolerate cold that’s ocean/surfing related.

“Why do you invariably do this?” Veronica sighs, batting his hand away and downgrading the heater from ‘max’ to ‘moderate’. “Why not just wear a warmer coat like the rest of society?”

“With this outfit?” His gesture encompasses his black cashmere sweater and jeans. “Are you high? It HAS to be a leather jacket, or the whole look is ruined. Besides, I’m only tagging along on this expedition out of an excess of Christmas spirit. I deserve to have my quirks humored.”

“You can take the boy out of Hollywood…” she sighs, relenting. “I’m still shocked your Navy nickname isn’t Fancy Pants.”

“Veronica,” he says, with an indulgent smirk. “You of all people should know just how much I deserve my nickname.”

“I certainly hope not,” she says. “If you’ve been sharing the talents that merit it with your shipmates, I’m going to get awfully jealous.”

He grins, delighted as always by her aptest zingers, then frowns as she turns onto a dirt road. “Papa Claus Discount Trees?” he demands, reading the sign at the gate. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“I realize the world of the poor is a foreign land,” she tells him, patting his hand. “But you promised give my idea a chance.”

“I ventured out of my comfort zone expecting a real store with real greenery,” he says, affronted. “But one of THESE places, Veronica? Aren’t they for…” he cuts himself off, like he’s worried he’ll offend her.

“For what, Logan? Normal people with normal budgets? Dad and I bought a tree here every year, growing up.”

He rubs his nose, apologetic. “I just thought they were…charities. Like, free trees for the poor?”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” She huffs and climbs out into the cold, wrenching the scarf she knitted in a failed attempt at Zen tighter. “Look at them,” she continues as he follows with visible reluctance, folding his arms to contain a shiver. “There are some perfectly nice trees on this lot. With pleasant-smelling needles and branches and everything, just waiting to accompany us home.”

“I bet this is where Charlie Brown got stuck with HIS tree, too,” Logan grouses, turning his collar up against the wind. “And you know how THAT turned out.”

“Oh, we’re living the hopeful and REDEMPTIVE Christmas story this evening,” she snaps, marching off down the aisle, past the checkout stand manned by a bored teenager in braces. “I was starting to think I was saddled with the Grinch.”

She’s determined, filled with working-class fury, to prove her brand-new husband wrong. But after half an hour of wandering the lot, looking for a tree that passes muster, Veronica’s starting to suspect Logan has a point. Not that she plans to admit it.

“Just pick one,” he whines, yawning again, because he got back a week ago from halfway across the world, and he’s too jetlagged to cope with the Pacific Time Zone. “Come on, Veronica, it’s cold. I want to tie whatever piece of shit you insist on to the car and go home.”

Ignoring him, she circles the next tree in the row, hoping it’s better than the last twenty. “Nope, this one clearly has a huge bald spot left-center.”

“Is it really so important that you be right about this?” he demands, stepping in front of her to halt her progress, and gazing down with gentle eyes. “You don’t need to shop on a budget anymore, Veronica. It’s a community property state, which makes you officially rich as fuck.”

“Look, it’s obvious there’s a slight decline in quality in the normal-person-affordable price range.” She tries and fails to avoid his stare. “And while I’m sure your fabulously-expensive imported tree would be beautiful…”

He maintains the grave and adorable pleading look, but ruins it by quietly humming ‘O Canada’. She smacks his chest and says, “Fine. I’m not ready to admit defeat, but we can continue the search somewhere slightly more upscale.”

“Okaaaay,” he huffs out a breath, visible in the frosty air, and turns his face to the sky, thinking. “One time, I was home sick when Mrs. Navarro had to pick up the Christmas stuff, so she brought me along. We got it a place called Mr. Greentrees. Everything was ten feet tall, fake and flocked, as I recall--but they looked better than these sad specimens. Want to give it a try?”

“Do you remember where it was?”

He nods, because his sense of direction is exceptional. Reluctantly, she hands over the keys.

Mr. Greentrees proves to be an indoor emporium of the frou-frou variety, exactly the kind of place Lynn Echolls would send her household staff to shop…but at least it’s warm. Veronica wanders the aisles, holding hands with Logan and wishing for more eggnog, and privately debates whether the pink or tangerine trees are tackier.

“You hate it,” he says, after they’ve quartered the store, pausing to brush a lock of hair out of her eyes. “Even I kind of hate it; it’s like the fifties collided with the eighties, flinging fake snow everywhere. But if we bought one of the plain ones, and maybe a pine-scented air freshener, that wouldn’t be so bad, right?”

“I want a real tree,” Veronica admits, letting him tuck her into his chest. “I’m sorry, Logan, we should have stayed home and chilled. I just feel like Christmas is a time for traditions, and I’ve always loved following mine. But it’s no fun bargain shopping if it makes YOU unhappy.”

“Look, maybe we’re just focused on the wrong traditions,” he says, stroking her back. “Like you’re used to buying the cheapest stuff possible, because you and Keith were strapped for cash growing up--but now that you’re a successful adult, junk doesn’t really satisfy. Whereas my tradition is this,” he waves a hand around, “kitsch with the volume cranked to eleven, around which five hundred of mommy’s favorite hangers-on mingle. Which, since I’d like to think I’m no longer a superficial asshole, I’m not crazy about, either.”

“So,” he continues, pushing her back a step, her shoulders cupped in his giant hands, “what if we made our own traditions, instead? A tree and ornaments of decent quality for me, because we can afford them, and they’ll look MUCH nicer. And lots of homey and sentimental touches for you, since you love those things so much. That way it could feel like a real Christmas for BOTH of us.”

“Fine,” she says, smiling crookedly up at him, which prompts him to kiss her forehead. “Let’s get the stupid Canada tree. You win.”

“Really?” she grins and he rolls his eyes skyward in silent thanks, wipes imaginary sweat from his brow. “Good, because I already ordered it. I was just waiting for you to agree before having it delivered, it’ll show up at the house within an hour.”

He pulls out his phone to text, and laughs when she smacks his arm. “I get to pick out the ornaments though,” she warns.

“Okay,” he says, hitting send. “But please, I beg you…no Kmart.”

“Whatever, Richie Rich.” She pulls his arm around her shoulders and steers him back towards the car. “How about Pier One? It’s still within a normal-human price range, but they have a nicer selection. And we can buy just enough to supplement the homemade stuff in my box.”

“Deal,” he says, and pulls her closer for a kiss. “I’ll even let you play golden oldies the whole time we decorate, just to sweeten the pot.”

XXXXX

Three hours and one frighteningly-efficient delivery later, Veronica and Logan are putting the finishing touches on a tree that’s, annoyingly, just as perfect as promised. The TV’s on, Pandora tuned to ‘Holiday Classics’. Veronica’s humming along to ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ while supervising Logan’s progress (since apparently ornament-hanging was a job for the ‘help’ in his home of origin).

Pony watches forlornly, banished to her bed by the fireplace after she tried to eat the decor. She scratches halfheartedly at the bow around her neck to which Logan objected, before eventually caving, then resumes gnawing on her Greenie.

“I think that’s the last one,” Logan says, making L-shapes with both hands and viewing the tree between them, as if framing a camera shot. “It’s all symmetrical, right? Please say yes.”

“Not bad for a beginner.” She circles the tree critically, mostly for show, since Logan’s meticulous and thorough about EVERYTHING. “And I have to admit, the Canada tree’s a winner. Guess they really DO make things bigger up there.”

“Well, I have to admit that Pier One was not as terrible as I feared.” He studies his handiwork, fists on hips, then turns his head to favor her with a wink. “And, now that we’re done with the blue-collar labor, I’ll show you big.”

“Why Lieutenant Echolls!” She purrs the words with deliberate coyness as he pulls her close, begins kissing along her jaw and throat. “If you’re trying to seduce me with bad innuendo, at least make it Christmas-themed. Seriously, not ONE terrible pun about stuffing my chimney with care?”

He winces as she claps to activate the tree lights, bathing the room in warm color, then resumes his downward path towards her cleavage. “I still think that gadget is ridiculous,” he says, undoing buttons and nuzzling along the cup of her bra with a finesse that makes her draw a sharp breath. “But on the other hand, there are now TWO things in the house I can turn on without touching.”

“And OFF, too,” she says, sarcasm probably ruined by her panting. “Funny how that works.”

“And on again?” he undoes the bra clasp with a flick of his thumb, licks a freed under-curve. “That super-soft Santa throw you insisted on buying sure would come in handy here on the floor.”

“Why do you think I insisted?” she manages, and he laughs, working his leisurely way down towards her jeans.

Enthusiastically, he employs himself once again proving his nickname’s merits, and in less than three minutes Veronica comes so hard she emits a shriek not normally heard in nature. The tree lights flash off, plunging them into darkness; Logan laughs, unfazed, and climbs atop her, undoing the buttons of his Levi's.

Pony, attracted by noise and unexpected flickering, flings her considerable bulk against the pet gate set up to protect her, and woofs gutturally in true spoiled-mutt fashion. The lights turn back on and Veronica says, “Shit, we need to upgrade to steel. She's gotten so big that thing might not hold.”

“She'll quit soon.” Logan sucks her earlobe distractingly as he grabs her knee and pushes inside. “The cushion you bought her is nicer than your old waterbed. Besides, you’re currently too busy to get up.”

Veronica moans as he fills her slowly, making the lights flicker, then gasps as he does that thing with his thumb (which recently convinced her to put a ring on him, despite her obsession with independence). Logan laughs, licking into her mouth as he increases his pace; she scratches gently down his shoulders as the lights turn off again, giving herself up to pleasure.

They’re flat on their backs, breathing hard and smiling, when the landline Veronica insisted on-- so they can screen the calls of people they don’t like--begins to ring. Neither of them moves, and the retro answering machine (which prevents them ever having to pick up) kicks into gear.

“Mr. and Mrs. Echolls?” A weedy voice issues from the speaker, querulous and trembling. “Listen, this is Bob from down the street? We’re over here doing a slideshow for my in-laws about the trip we took recently to Greece, and the lights in your house keep flashing on and off. I was just wondering…are you having a rave over there? Or are you in some kind of trouble? Because ever since that murder suspect broke into your garage, and the police came after he started shooting crossbows, shenanigans on your property give me PTSD. So if you wouldn’t mind…”

The machine beeps, cutting him off. Logan turns to Veronica, lifting supercilious-yet-satisfied brows in a way that makes her wish she had the energy to smack him. “Fine, we’ll get rid of the clapper,” she says, snuggling sleepily into his shoulder. “But you owe me one of those Pepperidge Farm cheese logs for being so accommodating.”

“Deal,” he says, hauling himself up to unplug the tree, then returning to toss her unceremoniously over her shoulder. “Come on, Mrs. Echolls, let’s retreat to the more comfortable environs of our bedroom, where I’ll fill you with Christmas spirit again in ways guaranteed not to give Bob a relapse.”

“Sweet talker,” she says, kissing his spine as he strides across the room. “Maybe, with applied effort, you can finally make it off the naughty list this year.”

“Don’t bet on it." He sets her gently atop their king-sized bed, and shuts the door with a snick. “But I promise, from the bottom of my heart…you’ll enjoy every one of my numerous sins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the fabulous CMackenzie, who beta'd and helped me brainstorm this fic, and without whom it probably wouldn't even exist.


End file.
